Tribute to My Uncle Eissa, the epitome of life and living.
He was that kind of boy; with dog-eared schoolbooks and neatly folded clothes. His curly hair was combed precisely at each end, and his wide eyes were always wandering. They say he was the most sophisticated of them all in appearance; buttons buttoned and shirts always tucked in.
But he was also that kind of boy; with stolen marbles in his pockets and cons up his sleeves. He knew every fallen stone in the neighborhood, every hiding corner, every wounded animal. He knew which gum wrappers held the ‘winning’ photos they’ve all collected at the time, and which ones were merely candy delights. He knew of traps, of knotted ropes around handles, and of buried coin jars. He was that kind of boy; with a raging fire within him that’s never out.
He was that kind of man who stacked pale stamps and faded photographs; who loved to record every distinctive sound, moment, joke, anecdote, or conversation, in that leather journal he kept so close. He was that kind of man; who would start a fire, just to watch the red flames engulf the blue within them, and to hear that hypnotizing crackling sound of the woods crumbling.
He was that kind of man; with condensed dreams tucked under his arms and a million tomorrows beneath them all. He knew how to weave aviation strategies without looking at a plane; and the beauty of unraveling worlds within worlds undersea. He knew the worth of self-fulfillment that shadows a risk of following an intense passion. He knew it all, and died knowing it.
He was that kind of father; who scrapped off words from every surface, and redistributed them as stories to his five children. He knew how to heal a wounded knee with mockery and laughter; and how to turn mundane trips and gatherings into endless theatrical plays. He was that kind of father; who wrapped values within parodies and instilled morals with an easing sense of humor. That kind of father, who gave everything; just to preserve every ounce of childhood, innocence, and life at every corner of the house.
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And so he goes,
another beautiful soul;
And so does that still world I’ve once believed I gripped; falling deep into an abyss I no longer see;
my loved ones, and their crooked smiles,
my loved ones, and their ridiculous sense of being
my loved ones, and their snippets of comfort,
From here on, in the clinging stench of death, and as the last breaths of those I’ve held so dear had ascended to the circus of the skies, I knew that these things I know for sure, would no longer be, and everything that we’ve built, breathed, and loved, would crumble. This ceaseless suffering year after year, would eventually fold everyone it touches like a choking weed. And, how after this, would one dare to love again?
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Dedicated to those who know the sound of “ Clocks” by “ The Black Pipers” with their eyes closed.
Some days never die .
they glaze our existence like a scented-phantom, trailing behind us wherever we step.
Those July days:
They’re here and there, at the core of every facet that make up my Todays.
At the bottom of my Navy converse.
We took a walk in that eerie forest,. Twigs, crisped leaves, misplaced belongings, branches tied with torn fabrics and one horrific garden. “A lost soul”, one of us said, “A psychotic lunatic, said the other, “ or perhaps, a creative artist.” Half-buried gnomes outlined it’s entrance, broken-winged butterflies and hanging garments, toys and statues marked every wooden pillar of the fence and marbles found their way around our feet. Something, somewhere, at the threshold, rendered us immobile. “ Don’t you realize, that we try to create meaning, when there isn’t any? Why is it, we believe, there is a story for everything?”
On that white luggage tag: " 123”.
They warned us, “ never leave the fire exit door open” ; for intruders could be lurking around in every corner, and history had proved that dead bodies could be hidden in trees for days. But Room “123” is right above “ 219”, and efficiency downsizes fear of theoretic stories we’ve heard. We grabbed our blankets and pillows, tiptoed our way to that red door we became accustomed to, and held our breath as we went downstairs to that sleepover we promised. And if I could break it down, those snippets would be the loudest, “ How have I never noticed, how large your toes are?”,
“ I had a dream, about a Tree”, and
“ That Alarm ringtone, is deathly”
And they’re there, in that gold-rimmed Ray Ban shades
“ Ocean Terminal”, she said, “ That’s where we’re headed tomorrow, I have a feeling, it’s a magical place”. And on we went on that sunny day, from one bus stop, to another, to another, from moderately normal-sized buses, to two-leveled ones until we finally reached, that salt-scented town; they called “ The Ocean Terminal”. “ Well, im slightly disappointed,” she said, as we stood in a bland mall, that held no promises. But we found our ways, in between the stops, to a Pizza Hut, right in the middle of a bar-infested area. And those conversations we exchanged over a Blue-cheese pizza, were the beating heart of that infinite day.
“ Don’t leave a tip, keep it for the needy”,
“Don’t tell me you expect me to drink your coke after this lunch we had?” and
“ I can’t believe we entered without waiting to be seated.”
But I know, it wasn’t the words; it was them.
And they’re there, tracing my purple Ipod.
At the back of the bus, we sat. “ Let’s play 20 questions,”, ,. From start to an end, and an end to a start, we found ourselves, unraveling political views and weaving worldly arguments, “ Jamal Abdul Naser you say? I would agree if he didn’t use the rich to fulfill the needs of the poor!” , “ And what about those Turkish Policies? Where do you stand on that? Public imagery versus true intent? “
“ I don’t think so!”
And the world slept, while we dissected it.
Some days, never die.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
It’s always the same terrifying dream – a projection of a future that presses itself against my consciousness, leaving nothing but the residue of what once resembled life.
It’s a madhouse, a white in white madhouse that holds no one but those who fell off the grid somewhere. I can’t move around because everything in existence is stifled there; laughter that failed to escape its realm and tears rimming eyes like withering organs. Their voices are crushed questions; ones the world held no answer to, and their bodies are stories of an overturned subconscious. I wonder if the horror of human ignorance had anchored their limbs to the ground, or perhaps it was the weight of knowledge, the burden of –knowing-, that emptied them of the vital promise that enabled humans to breathe: the prospect of tomorrow, the possibility of meaning. They’re immobile for they no longer wear their ideals on their heads like woolen hats; they exhausted them in the process of trying to shake the world out of its stupor. And that’s when they were deemed unfit for it; that’s when they disintegrated into fragments which could’ve fueled the earth but perished instead.
It's always the same terrifying thought - is ignorance bliss?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
They’re all over your wardrobe doors; sketches and portraits that were scraped off your skin. I look at them, tucking away a shiver that ran through my veins. Your edges are no longer smooth strikes of a sharpened pencil; they're smears of dark matter.
" Why , is it, do you choose to sketch misery? Why is it, do you choose void, and not that liveliness I know you possess?”
You look right back at me, with a smile that speaks of childhood afternoon quests and watermelon seeds contests. “ We’re hollow, and you know it. Do you see it too, when you close your eyelids? That shapeless memory, of midnight shrieks and pains? Of endless heaves and agonies? Can you, for a second forget, that we sat there, watching a soul break down into so many shards, until there was nothing else but nothingness itself for death to claim?”.
And I thought you knew how to wrap your heart up in paper-bubbles, to guard it from days that we chose to tie a knot around. But there you are , a broken-hearted man, sketching an ache only you knew of, while living life as if it was one of the funniest jokes you’d ever heard of.
Monday, October 11, 2010
She held on to the roll of ribbons she’d been handed. “ Cut them into pieces, cross-tie them, and show your support for the October cause”. After all, she was that house precisely built with beautiful, patterned deck cards; that pale streamer with smeared grey letters jamming the window, and that featureless Toy solider discarded behind the fridge. They had feet to stand on; she’d been knocked over one day, and went on with loose limbs and organs; waiting for the world to put her back together.
She took the ribbon roll and dragged it swiftly behind her to that corner where a a dream-looking autistic child sat hunched over a piece of paper, folding it and refolding, as if time had turned into a short-spanned loop. A glass shell of a boy, a nonexistent shadow, a condensed bundle of non-expressed lives within lives. They tampered with the universe, and touched every core with their feet soles, but who knows of you little boy? She tied the ribbon smoothly on his wrist, and continued her way with what’s left of it. To a street corner where a young woman is unraveling the sky with her hands, trying to locate stars, or maybe just a star. Her bloodied finger tips barely reached; her battered abused body fragilely breathed,; and her insides, were turned, once upon a dreadful night, into frozen ghosts. She pulled out the ribbon roll, and turned it into a beautiful bow, and pinned it softly on the young woman’s hair. She moved along to that little boy, whose lightening sneakers weren’t fast enough. She ran behind him as he ran with an extended hand trying to grab the tips of his mother’s outline. But the outline wants to inhale a life, and a life, doesn’t include, little boys with brittle hearts and limbs. She embraces the little boy, touching his nose and eyes, tracing invisible seams of lost childhoods and psychopathic tomorrows. She pinned the ribbon on his front pocket next to a threaded shark. She was tired, and the stops had no finish line. She knew that, and she knew that her roll of ribbons was now a mere carton that cracked under her firm hold.
To human kind, she gifted them all.
Pink ribbons would cure Cancer, when sparrows wouldn’t fall off trees because the branches were taped together; and when human hands wouldn’t scratch of veined-surfaces and mistake it for a loving touch.